


Fall Apart

by fairwinds09



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: F/M, OPA can handle everything, Post 5x09, angsty and fluffy simultaneously, even secret pregnancies and dramatic reunions, presidential lovechild, quinn perkins for the win, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09
Summary: A re-write of 5x09. Olivia finds out she's pregnant, and does what comes naturally...she runs.An exploration of what could have been.





	1. Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever fic for Scandal, and it has been a wild and crazy ride. I have loved this show for a while now, but in the process of re-watching Seasons 1-5 so I could properly binge-watch Season 6 on Netflix, I had this sudden compulsion to create a lovely AU universe mid-season 5 in which Olivia does not have an abortion, the team comes back together full force, and shenanigans ensue. Thus, this fic was born. 
> 
> Please note that this is no way signifies a problem with Olivia's right to choose, and I applaud Shonda's decision to tackle something so bold in a primetime show (even if, personally, it gutted me to watch). I also think that, in terms of characterization, this was absolutely a choice that made sense for Olivia, given her deep-seated issues with family and parenthood in general. If Eli and Maya Pope were my parents, I'd be screwed up about kids too. However, even though it wouldn't have worked with the timeline of the show, I also think that Olivia running away to deal with the problem is a logical choice. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and that you find it more or less in character. This fic is just as much about Olivia's relationship with her team as it is about her relationship with Fitz. Although she loves Fitz passionately (and yes, they are my OTP, always), she loves her team just as fiercely. It's part of what makes her so incredibly amazing. 
> 
> Final note, because this is getting absurdly long--I picked the title "Fall Apart" for a number of reasons. Firstly, because that's exactly what's happening with Fitz and Olivia during Season 5, despite their best intentions. Secondly, because that's what they tend to do without each other (poor babies can't be happy, ever). Thirdly, because I was listening to the soundtrack of _Hamilton_ for the jillionth time, and the lyrics to "Dear Theodosia" popped into my head all of a sudden:
> 
> "When you smile, I fall apart  
> And I thought I was so smart..."
> 
> So, kudos to Lin-Manuel for being the beautiful genius that he is, and thanks for all the baby feels. Here goes!

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, turning the little plastic strip over and over in her hands. The reality of it keeps battering at the edges of her brain, searching for a point of entry, and she realizes that she has curled into herself as if the danger is here in the room, in front of her. It can’t be happening, can’t be happening to her, it’s not possible, how could she--?

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, how long she stares at those two lines that have abruptly, inexplicably changed her entire life. It seems impossible, for something so tiny to have such an enormous impact. At one point she wonders what she’ll do if he comes back from his meeting early, catches her here with the damning evidence still in her hands. She doesn’t move, though. Not yet. 

Finally, she hears her phone buzz in the other room, a text message coming through, and that’s what snaps her out of it. Quickly, numbly, she gets up and grabs a suitcase from her closet. She’s in the middle of neatly rolling a camisole when she realizes that it will easier if she has backup. Slowly, she picks up the phone by their bedside. 

“Abby?” she says quietly into the receiver. “Abby, I know things are...things are…” she trails off on a sigh. “But...I need you. Here. Now.”

It’s time to run. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Abby’s the one who arranges everything, who slips her luggage past the Secret Service agents, who calls Huck and Quinn and sets the plan in motion. Olivia just packs, packs with clinical neatness, shoes and suits and blouses rolled and folded and slipped into garment bags. She leaves a few things, the ones she doesn’t have room for. She refuses to think of Fitz staring into the near-empty closet, looking at the rubble of their attempt to make a life together. She refuses to think at all, just moves like an automaton. It’s easier that way. 

She’s gone within two hours (such a short amount of time to tear down everything she’s created), walks out past the guards arm in arm with Abby, smiles brightly, all teeth and sparkle, laughs a little as they talk of lunch plans and the possibility of mimosas in the middle of the day. They don’t drop the facade until they’re in the car, Huck at the wheel, and she drops into the seat boneless--no fight left in her. She doesn’t ask where they’re going. 

Abby rides with them to the airport, waits until the car stops on the tarmac beside the private plane that Huck and Quinn somehow managed to find within a two-hour time frame, and then she takes Olivia’s face in her hands and holds it, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones. Olivia stares into her eyes, her friend who has just moved heaven and earth for her, and wishes she could cry.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Liv?” she asks, and Olivia nods dumbly. 

“All right,” Abby says, doubt leaching into her voice. Then she visibly straightens her spine, nods once, all business. “All right. What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him you don’t know where I am,” and her voice is so raw, she almost doesn’t recognize it. “Tell him I slipped out on my own, that I called you from the airport and said I had to go, that I couldn’t do this anymore. Don’t let him know you were part of this.”

Abby nods again, eyes suspiciously bright, and then pulls Liv into a tight hug. 

“Call me,” she orders. “Tell me what colour onesies I should buy.” 

Liv swallows hard around the lump in her throat and whispers, “Okay.”

And then it’s time, time to step onto the plane that will take her into the unknown, all the baggage loaded, and Huck leads and Quinn follows and she is not alone. Thank God, she is not alone. 

As they’re taking off, she keeps looking at her phone. He hasn’t called.


	2. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's small, a little quaint, but it's home. 
> 
> At least for now.

The first call comes ten minutes after they touch down in Seattle. She holds the phone in her hand, lets it ring and ring on silent, and then watches as the voicemail comes through. She doesn’t listen to it. She can’t. 

She’s exhausted, head to toe, but they aren’t finished yet. Huck gets them a hotel suite for the night, pays under a false name, and she’s distantly glad that someone else is handling all the details for once. _Consider it handled_ plays in her head like a half-forgotten tune, and she almost laughs out loud. She can’t handle a damn thing right now. 

That night, she curls into the queen-sized bed alone, and she’s cold, so cold that she can’t stop shivering, wraps her arms around herself and tries her best not to think of his bulk at her back, the warmth that constantly emanates off of him. No matter how frigid the weather, she can always rely on that warmth, the steadiness of his arms around her, the blunt strength of those big hands. The metaphor is so obvious she rolls her eyes at her own sentimentality, but it doesn’t stop the shivering. Nothing does. 

She’s still awake at 3:30 in the morning when she hears the door open, scratching across the carpeting, and she feels the bed depress next to her. He lays there, over the duvet, stares up at the ceiling in the darkness. He doesn’t say a word. 

After a long beat, she rolls over and lays a hand on his chest, feels the steady breaths he draws in and out. The shivering eases, just a little. 

“Thank you, Huck,” she whispers, and it frightens her how small she sounds, how diminished. 

“Whatever you need,” he whispers back, and she clutches his shirt in her hand, buries her head in the pillow and finally sleeps, freefalling into unconsciousness. 

When she wakes, there’s sunlight in bright bars across the foot of the bed and he’s gone. There’s an imprint of his shirt button on the palm of her hand. 

She checks her phone, compulsively. Twenty-seven missed calls. Eleven voicemails. 

She turns it off and shoves it to the bottom of her bag. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The house is perfect, she thinks, staring at it from the curb as the taxi driver helps Huck unload her bags. It’s small, painted a weathered blue, and there are pansies growing in twin pots on the steps to the front door, bright splashes of red and purple against the grey mist. She lets Quinn open the door and go in ahead of her. 

Inside, it’s simple, cozy--cream walls and slightly worn furniture, nothing like the stark elegance of her apartment. The walls are bare, she notes, and as she stands in the middle of the living room, taking stock, she wonders why there’s furniture but nothing hanging on the walls, no paintings, not a solitary thing. Huck walks up behind her, follows her gaze. 

“I thought you’d like to hang things. Yourself,” he offers, and she turns to give him a grateful smile. 

“I would,” she says, softer than usual, and she closes her eyes tightly, breathes in the scent of sea air and old wood. This is home, at least for now. She’d better get used to it. 

“Show me the rest of it,” she says, and her hand flutters over her stomach for just a moment before she forces it back to her side. 

Huck leads the way into the narrow hallway, and she swallows hard and follows. One foot after the other.


	3. Inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She climbs up to the lookout point of the lighthouse, stands there on the deck staring out across the strait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I really wanted to accomplish in this fic was to get inside Liv's head a bit, explore the fear and desperation that made her leave in the first place. I think we see this a lot on the show itself, and there's a good deal of frustration in the fandom about Olivia's repeated decision to leave Fitz all to his lonesome. She often has solid reasons to do so, but I'll admit that it can sometimes be maddening for diehard shippers (like myself). So, this fic is in part my attempt to pick apart why Liv runs, over and over again. 
> 
> Also, if you're interested, the story about Juan de Fuca and the information about Port Townsend is factually correct (at least as much as I could verify via the Internet). From my research, it seems like a perfectly lovely place to live. There is a state park, it does have a lighthouse, and it does overlook the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It also seems like a good place to hide if you're having a president's baby in secret, so...y'know, perfect for my purposes!
> 
> Finally, if you're here for the Olitz action, fear not...it's coming. Be patient!

It's a quiet place, Port Townsend, nine thousand souls overlooking the choppy waters of the bay. The old Victorian buildings are beautiful, the downtown bustles with art galleries and indie restaurants, but she doesn't venture out much. It's been three months, and she still doesn't know most of the street names or where the closest grocery store is. She doesn't want to know.

Most days, she drives to the state park, through the trees dripping with moisture, sometimes with tendrils of fog still clinging to the ground, and goes up along the coastline to the lighthouse. Some days, she parks and walks along the beach, miles of empty sand and sea around her, variations of grey blending into each other. Some days she climbs up to the lookout point of the lighthouse, stands there on the deck staring out across the strait.

The first time she came, the lighthouse guard told her it was named for Juan de Fuca, a Greek explorer who was in the service of the king of Portugal. She looked him up at the local library (she hasn't touched her laptop in months) and discovered that he sailed to the Far East, explored up the Pacific coastline, claimed to find great riches. He never received full payment for his services, she read, and returned home to die in obscurity, embittered and alone. She feels a certain kinship to him. After all, she isn't the first one to change her name, set adrift on uncharted seas. Not the only one to fear dying without leaving her mark on something. She wonders if he would have appreciated finally being known, his name inked indelibly onto the map.

She's a little envious, truth be told.

When she comes home in the haze of evening, Quinn is always waiting for her, with an exasperated furrow between her eyebrows. There's supper, sometimes takeout from the Italian place a few blocks away, sometimes homemade. Quinn's a better cook than Olivia gave her credit for. Some nights Liv cooks, simple things, scrambled eggs and biscuits from a can. She tells Quinn that she never bothered to learn to cook, not when D.C. had every form of restaurant anyone could want. She supposes she'll learn a little, now.

It's been three months, and he's called every day, like clockwork. She lets the voicemails pile up on her phone, doesn't delete them.

It's quiet here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abby calls her once a week to check in, asks how she feels and if there's any morning sickness, clucks at her like a mother hen for walking the beach for hours by herself. At Liv's request, she relays the juiciest news from the Hill, all the backroom political machinations that she used to live for. Abby never mentions him.

It's four months before she asks, tentatively, "How is he?"

There's a long silence on the other end, and she can hear Abby shifting at her desk.

"Not good," she says finally, because Liv knows her too well for her to be able to lie and get away with it.

Olivia sinks down on the floor, her back against the couch, and leans her head back against the seat cushions.

"What's he doing?" she asks, because she doesn't want to know the answer but she can't stop herself. The dull ache that's been lodged just under her breastbone for four months now has started to throb, pulsing like an open wound. She makes a fist and holds it against her chest.

Abby sighs. "Drinking. A lot. Not eating. I don't think he's sleeping, either. Liv, he-"

She breaks off abruptly, and Olivia presses a little harder, shoves against the pain blooming through her lungs, her ribcage, her stomach.

"What?" she whispers.

Abby doesn't say anything for five beats, six, seven.

"I think he's just-given up. On living. On everything," she says finally, and there's a flatness to her voice that tells Liv how tired she really is. "He gave up the night he came back and saw...when he found out you were gone."

Liv curls into herself, knees drawn up to her slightly rounded stomach, cradles the phone on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Abby huffs through her nose, a little exasperated noise.

"I'm okay," she says, begrudgingly, and then, "Liv, you need to take care of yourself. One of you has to. Promise me."

"I promise," she says, and there's silence on the other end of the line. She can hear a door slam, a conversation in the background.

"I have to go," Abby murmurs. "Talk to you later?"

"Bye," she murmurs back, and then there's nothing but the dial tone in her ear and she lets herself fall over slowly, cheek rubbing against the roughness of the wool throw rug, and she just lies there, stares at nothing, still clutching the phone in one hand, until Quinn comes in three hours later and makes her get up, go get in bed.

She doesn't go to the coast for a while after that.


	4. Fissure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has walled herself off from the world, water all around her, the silence impenetrable. She can endure here, tucked away in this near-forgotten pocket of the world.
> 
> She stops thinking so the day she's sitting in the doctor's office for her monthly checkup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Fitz shows up...sort of. They are going to confront each other in person, eventually, but I very much want to explore how Olivia reacts to just the reminder of him here in this chapter. She has fought so hard to shut herself down, to forcibly forget everything that he meant to her, everything that they were to each other, and when she can't do that anymore she quite literally breaks down. 
> 
> Also, the idea of Abby dropping everything and flying across the country to be there with her just gave me all the feels.

For five months, she hasn't seen his face. No television, no newspapers, no Internet, no possible way for her resolve to break. Quinn keeps a TV in her bedroom, and sometimes late at night Liv can hear it, the sound garbled through the walls. It doesn't matter-she has walled herself off from the world, water all around her, the silence impenetrable. She can endure here, tucked away in this near-forgotten pocket of the world, pretend that she is a simple person, not quite normal (she does not do normal), but simple seems easy enough.

She stops thinking so the day she's sitting in the doctor's office for her monthly checkup (Huck has threatened to fly out and drag her there bodily if she misses, so she makes it to every appointment like clockwork). She avoids the glossy magazines, brings a book, something she picked up at the used bookstore during one of her rare trips downtown. She's engrossed in a description of Puget Sound when she hears his voice, and it's all she can do to not leap out of her seat with the shock of it.

"My fellow Americans," is all she hears before the buzzing in hers ears begins, and she turns blindly towards the door, searching for him, before she realizes that it's the TV mounted in a corner of the waiting room. She stares up at it, greedy, the first time she's seen or heard him in almost half a year, and the sight almost makes her sick to her stomach then and there. He looks terrible, gaunt, his cheekbones rising sharply from the planes of his face. There are shadows carved deeply under his eyes, his eyes...God, there are not words for this, no words for the exhaustion in them, the pain. She wonders how everyone else doesn't see it, thinks maybe they do, maybe the American public has noticed that their president is wearing down to nothingness right before their eyes. How the hell would she know?

He's still talking, the banner underneath running something about the G8 summit, international heads of state, but she can't read it very well anymore. Her vision is blurring, and in the back of her mind she realizes her breath is coming fast, too fast, and when she stands her legs are like water beneath her. She stumbles out the door, almost bumps into someone coming in, and by the time she makes it to her car she's doubled over from the shooting pains through her abdomen. She never does know how she made it home.

Quinn finds her dry-heaving in the back yard, on her hands and knees, her fingers curled into the soft ground, nails broken, dirt streaking her fingers.

"Is it the baby?" Quinn gasps, kneeling, her arm coming up around Olivia's shoulders, and she shakes her head, slumps into Quinn's grasp. She's so tired, she thinks dimly. She should go to sleep, she's so tired…

Quinn pulls her into a half-sitting position, strokes her hair back from her face.

"Liv…" she whispers, half a question, and then she presses her lips together firmly and pulls her phone out of her pocket. "I'm calling Abby," she says, and Olivia doesn't bother to tell her no, just rests her forehead against Quinn's shoulder and breathes in fabric softener and the smell of damp earth.

She brings one hand up to her stomach and doesn't even notice when she leaves smudges of dirt across her blouse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abby walks through her door two days later, messenger bag dangling from her shoulder and fire in her eyes. She walks straight through the house, onto the back patio, her heels clacking against the wooden planks, and plants herself in front of Liv's deck chair.

"What is going on with you?" she asks, without preamble, and Olivia smiles for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Hello to you too," she says, and Abby sits down with a whoosh, lays a hand on the blanket covering her legs.

"What happened, Liv?" she asks, and Olivia turns her head, looks at the tangle of phlox and lupine spilling across the flowerbed just below the deck.

"I saw him," she says, blankly, and wonders how three words have made her an invalid. Abby sucks in her breath sharply, lets the bag drop with a thud.

"When? Where? God, Liv, he came here? How did he-"

She shakes her head, eyes still trained on the riot of lavender and blue.

"On the TV. At the doctor's office," she says, and thinks that the old Olivia would have been ashamed, that a figure on a screen could cause this. The new Olivia simply doesn't care. (Simple, yes, she is simple now.)

"Oh, Liv…" Abby whispers, and she feels her friend's fingers tangle around her own, feels them gently squeeze. She takes a breath in through her nose, closes her eyes against the watery sunshine threatening to break out from behind the clouds.

"I'm okay," she murmurs, and she feels Abby's hand tighten. She doesn't open her eyes.

"No, you're not," but Abby's voice is not unkind. "Neither of you is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Abby stays as long as she can, three days, makes up a story about a dead brother and funeral arrangements to stave off the frantic calls that come in every five minutes or so on her cell. She stays long enough to make Olivia walk around the back garden twice every day, long enough to pull a few strings and grease a few palms so that for the remainder of her pregnancy, Olivia will have check-ups at home. When Abby tells her, the night before she flies out, Liv finds her lips twitching involuntarily.

"I didn't think doctors did house calls anymore," she observes drily, even though she knows the answer to this. Abby nudges her ankle; they are curled on the couch, Liv's feet under the blanket, brushing Abby's knees, and for a few moments she feels almost warm again.

"For five thousand dollars, it turns out your gynecologist is willing to meet with you anywhere you please," she responds, rests her palm on the arch of Liv's foot. "Honestly, you could have this kid on a dinghy in the middle of the bay and I don't think she'd bat an eye."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Olivia says, tongue-in-cheek, and feels a sudden flare of panic at the thought of labour, the pain, not knowing what comes next. "Will you-" she starts, and can't make herself finish.

"Of course I'll come," Abby says, softly, takes Liv's hands in hers. "We all will."

Quinn pokes her head in from the kitchen where she's washing up.

"The plane tickets are already booked," she says, and Olivia turns to look at her, the woman who has saved her right back.

"She better not come early, then," she says, and doesn't even realize that she called the baby "she."


End file.
